The Hand Writing the Eye. by Connor Fisher

Each time that I
Begin is enough.
Each start etching a
Motto over doors
And windows. Words
Turned and gently
Resting on my hands
On my knees my lap
In my mind held in the old
Cup of my stomach my
Strength and sadness
Gripped in my teeth
My trembling little
Fingers my thoughts my
Thoughts my eyes and
Each eye apart a
Bit of my small view
My small call and my
Guilt or worry my lips
That part that snap or
Speak that soften with
Light and touch or
Time my sound my
Own sound my outside
Hum and shout my weepy
Nose and tongue and
Face my silence and
Private art of anger my
Private license my useless
Parts that glaze my age
My age in a year my
Age then again my holy
Hands my swung arms my
Difficult hair my difficult
Mind and shoulders and
Combined sides that wither
That ache and thin that
Contain, partition the heart
And the other hearts from
A lung, that trouble
My rest my troubling
Dreams my gaping pupils
That blink and blind my
Gaze my open face and
Straight lines my curve of
Gravity and curving
Body my peace my peace
That slips away my
Peace that fails me that
Falls into my open arms
Surrender secret my secret feeling
My knowledge of plants,
Growths, hidden caves, animals,
Bridges, violence and regret,
My watery touch and human
Smell my heavy foot my
Lingering foot or tripping
Heel my hidden waist my
Hidden hips and chest, eyes,
Teeth, head, my wrist for
Motion, my silence is strength and
My glass hoops to stutter
Through are my small hats for
Facing out my hands my coy
Blink lazes and turns and turns.

Connor Fisher was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and currently lives in Denver, Colorado. He has a MA in English Literature from the University of Denver and is working towards an MFA in Creative Writing—Poetry from the University of Colorado at Boulder. Connor does not currently own any pets, but plans to get himself a cat one way or another within the next three years.